Chapter 28
Naomi’s cheeks ached from fake smiling. So far, she’d dished out twenty-seven slices of cake, fifty-four cups of punch, and opened thirteen bags of chips.
The Mallard Family Memorial Day Cookout was in full swing when April arrived at the snack table. “You look miserable.”
So much for her acting skills. “I thought I was smiling.”
“Is that what you call it?” April surveyed the offerings. “Grimacing is more like it.”
“Did you come over here to harass me?” Naomi handed a cup of punch to the Palluch boy from down the street. “Because I’m not in the mood.”
April joined her behind the table with a sizable slice of cake in hand. “What did Snoop Doggy Dawn say when you told her about Chance?”
Pointing up, Naomi said, “See that pretty ball of fire? Don’t be surprised if it explodes tomorrow. Because given the opportunity, my mother did not say, ‘I told you so.’”
“You’re lying.”
“I am not.” Her niece Felicity walked up to the table. “What can I get you, sweetie?”
“Madison wants some pretzels.”
“Then Madison will have them.” Naomi filled a small Styrofoam bowl. “Here you go.”
“Thanks!” Felicity yelled over her shoulder before running straight to her father. Lawrence winked at Naomi as he took the snack.
Unbelievable. He’d just made his own daughter lie. “Dad of the Year, Lawrence!” Naomi yelled, and was ignored by her brother-in-law.
“You know,” April said, “since you refuse to let your mom find you a man, why don’t we pretend that I’m her kid and let her find me one?”
“You want my mother to fix you up?”
“Based on my track record, she couldn’t do any worse than I’ve been doing for myself.”
Naomi handed off another piece of cake before spotting Neal headed their way. He wasn’t remotely April’s type, but he was a doctor. She could do worse.
“Then get your game face on, because candidate number one is stepping in.”
At the exact second that April shoved a large bite of cake in her mouth, Neal arrived. “Hello, ladies. I hear this is where the good stuff is.”
Ignoring the choking woman beside her, Naomi said, “It sure is. Pick your poison. Cake, cookies, or chips. And if you’d like to make the Mallard Cookout highlight reel, I have a secret stash of spiked punch under the table.”
“Baker warned me about that punch. I’ll stick with a piece of cake.”
April set her plate on the table. “Good choice,” she said. “The icing is amazing.”
“I bet it is. You’ve got a little extra there on your lip.” Before her best friend could react, Neal leaned over the table, swiped the bit of white frosting off the corner of her mouth, then licked the sweet stuff off his finger. Naomi held up her friend when April’s knees weakened. “Perfection,” he declared.
“Uh-huh.” April appeared to have lost brain function.
“Okay, then.” Handing over a piece, Naomi was about to suggest Neal and April go get her a hamburger when the doctor spoke first.
“Where’s Chance today? I expected Dawn to put him to work dazzling the crowd.”
Naomi swallowed hard. “Chance isn’t here.”
“That’s too bad.” Neal slid a plastic fork through his cake. “How’s his hand doing? Any progress on moving the fingers?”
She cleared her throat. “I’m not sure. Chance and I aren’t together anymore.”
The surgeon tilted his head. “Really? You two seemed like such a great match. What happened?”
With a white-knuckle grip, Naomi clung to the table to keep from falling apart. “We—”
“You know what, Neal,” said April, circling the table to wrap her hands around his arm, “I was just thinking I need to check out the carnival games. Would you be kind enough to escort me over there?”
“Sure. I’m pretty good at the ring toss. I could win you a prize.”
April turned up the southern charm. “That would be ever so sweet of you.” As the pair walked away, she sent her friend a hang in there look.
Collapsing into the metal chair behind her, Naomi reached for a generous serving of cake and proceeded to eat her feelings.
“Push me higher, Uncle Chance,” Tristan demanded, kicking his feet forward and back.
“You’re going high enough, munchkin.” Chance shielded his eyes from the sun as he watched Izzy cuddle Willie on his back porch.
The swing set, a new addition installed the previous day, had so far diverted Tristan’s attention away from the cat. No longer being constantly pursued, the feline had joined the family outside. But as far as Chance could tell, the animal had yet to forgive him for chasing off his toy provider. Willie and Naomi had fallen into a nightly routine that involved her working on her laptop on the couch, and Willie perched comfortably over her shoulder.
If the cat thought he was the only one missing her, he was wrong.
“I think the swings are a hit,” Shelly said, handing him a glass of lemonade she’d fetched from the house. “Thanks for buying it, but I hope you’re prepared for what this means. He’s going to be begging to come visit all the time now.”
Chance gave his nephew another push. “Bring him anytime. Besides,” he said, “we had to outdo your ex, right?”
Tristan had spent two weeks telling anyone who would listen about the cool fort his dad had gotten him. Now, he had a fort and a swing set and a climbing wall just his size.
Leaning against the wooden frame, she said, “That kind of competition can get costly.”
“I’ve got the money. Might as well spend it on a kid who will appreciate it.” Shelly chuckled, her eyes watching something in the distance. Chance could tell she had something on her mind. “I’m not going to like whatever it is you’re trying not to tell me, am I?”
She straightened off the post. “Naomi sent me a text. She asked me to pack up her things and bring them to her office at Shooting Stars.”
Nope. He didn’t like it. Some naive part of him had hoped she’d come for them on her own. Maybe once she’d cooled off and didn’t hate him quite as much. Then the realist in him had a good laugh and he’d eaten one of the chocolate muffins she’d left behind. Replacing liquor with snacks probably wasn’t a smart way to go, so he’d dusted off the neglected gym equipment in the room over the barn to balance things out.
Naomi had been gone for forty-eight hours, and it felt more like forty-eight days. The first night he’d ripped the sheets off the bed, unable to sleep with her scent surrounding him. And then he’d thrown them back on the mattress, unable to let her go. Determined to get on with things, he’d spent the previous day carrying her belongings down to the guest room. Though he had every intention of begging for forgiveness, Chance held no illusions that Naomi would ever come back to him.
“You don’t have to pack anything,” he said. “It’s all in her suitcase in the guest room.”
“Are you in that much of a hurry to get rid of her?”
Chance gave Tristan another push. “You can’t get rid of someone who’s already gone, Shell.”
She rubbed his arm. “Have you tried calling her?”
“Yeah. She didn’t answer, so I hung up.”
“You could have left a message.”
Chance shook his head. “What I have to say won’t fit in a voice mail.”
“Then how do you plan to get her to listen? I doubt she’ll agree to meet with you.”
He’d done a lot of thinking about this question and had come up with an idea. “I’m hoping you can help me with that.”
She stiffened. “I’m not tricking Naomi into anything, Chance. That isn’t fair to her.”
There would be no tricking. Not exactly. “I’m not asking you to. Will you call up Sam and get me a meeting with Dylan Monroe?”
“But how is that—”
“Shell,” he cut in, “will you do it or not?”
Eyes narrowed, she said, “What are you up to?”
Snagging Tristan’s belt loop, he brought the swing to a halt, ignoring the toddler’s protests. “Just get me the meeting, okay?”
Shelly pulled her son off the swing. “All right. I’ll call Sam tonight.”
With his good hand, Chance swung the squealing child onto his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Thanks. Now let’s go eat some burgers.”
The net worth of the Shooting Stars conference room quadrupled in a matter of minutes.
Orchestrating this gathering had not been easy, especially the day after a holiday. Putting four label heads in the same room at the same time without throwing an awards show took considerable logistics. But once all parties understood the purpose, schedules had been adjusted. Ironically, getting the guest of honor to appear had taken little more than a phone call.
“Thank you again for coming today, gentlemen.” Clay unbuttoned his suit jacket as Belinda took coffee orders.
Some of the biggest names in the business were seated around his conference table. Tony Rossi, his former business partner and the current head of Foxfire Records, which they’d started together, sat at the opposite end of the table from Clay. C. W. Clementine, head of Blackstone Records, and Ulyss Kosta, head of Maverick Records, occupied one long side. Both C. W. and Ulyss had worked with Chance in the past. They’d both dropped him due to his inability to keep himself out of trouble, but neither had disliked the man. Their decisions had been purely business.
Foxfire had never had Chance on their roster, but Tony did have some of the fastest-rising artists on the radio today, which meant adding his firepower to this coalition would strengthen the message about to be delivered.
“Do we have proof of the crime, so to speak, before we take this too far?” C. W. asked. Clay didn’t blame him. His label had celebrated three number-one songs in the first four months of the year, thanks to the person in question.
“Directly from the source,” Clay replied, meaning the response literally. Eugenia Parker had been very clear about who’d sent the reporter to her doorstep.
“Personally, I’ve never liked him,” Tony said, acknowledging Belinda as she set a cup in front of him. “If the boy couldn’t write a hit song, I doubt anyone in this town would give him the time of day.”
“But he can write a hit song.” Ulyss also acknowledged Belinda’s silent delivery. “Aren’t we screwing ourselves by doing this?”
Clay settled into his chair at the head of the table. “There are hundreds of songwriters in this town, many of whom are as good as or better than Swanson. Neither the quantity or quality of songs available to our artists will change.”
Ulyss raised a brow. “Easy for you to say. You’ve got Chance Colburn in your pocket, and from what I hear, Dylan Monroe is no songwriting slouch, either. As of now, you don’t need to tap the vein of songwriters in this town.”
“But he will,” Tony defended. “We all do at some point. Clay is right. There’s an integrity issue here, and any asshole willing to do something so petty should face the consequences.”
C. W. and Ulyss exchanged a look. Their reservations were weakening.
“We aren’t the only labels in town,” C. W. pointed out. “How do we know the others won’t use him?”
Music Row was littered with small houses releasing hundreds of songs a year, but the four labels represented at this table were the largest in the country genre. Only two others hovered around their level, and Clay had already discussed this strategy with their leaders.
“I can’t guarantee the smaller labels won’t take his work, but Sundown and Aftershock are on board. I talked to both Jack and Delilah yesterday. They couldn’t get out of their obligations for this morning, but agreed that this is a necessary move.”
“Then I’m good with it,” Ulyss said, sitting back with his coffee.
Clay rubbed his hands together. “Okay, then. I’ll bring him in.” He signaled Belinda with a curt nod and she left the room.
Less than a minute later, Michael Swanson stepped into the Shooting Stars conference room wearing a wide grin. The grin disappeared before the door clicked shut behind him. “What’s going on, gentlemen?” he asked, nerves evident in his voice.
“Sit down, Swanson,” Clay said. “We have a matter to discuss.”
Tony pointed to a chair centered along the empty side. “We saved you a seat.”
Michael rolled the chair away from the table and lowered slowly into it, eyes darting between the four moguls before him.
“I assume you’ve read the article that came out last week,” Clay began. “The one that chronicles Chance Colburn’s early life.”
Swanson’s eye twitched. “Yeah. I’ve seen it.”
“We know you instigated it,” Ulyss continued. “That was a fucked-up thing to do, Mikey.”
“I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The sweat dotting his brow said differently.
Tony picked up the baton. “Chance Colburn isn’t perfect, but he’s paid his dues. Owned up to his mistakes and turned things around. I respect him for that.”
“We all do,” C. W. added. “What we don’t respect is a coward who kicks a man when he’s down and hides behind a little old lady while he does it.”
“That’s you,” Tony clarified.
The songwriter doubled down. “I don’t know who you guys have been talking to, but I don’t know anything about that article. Or any old lady.”
“Then why would Eugenia Parker so adamantly want to thank you for sending that reporter to her door?” Clay asked. “And for calling her up in the first place, offering condolences on her dead son and an opportunity for her to expose the person responsible?”
Swanson nearly crawled out of his skin. “That old lady’s crazy. I’m telling you. I had nothing to do with it.”
Ulyss leaned forward. “Here’s how this is going to work. Your songs are no longer wanted. By us or our artists.”
“We suggest you take up a new line of work,” C. W. said. “Head out to LA and try your hand at jingles.”
“Or stay here and rot,” Tony suggested. “Your choice. But don’t expect anyone in this town to record a Michael Swanson original ever again.”
Their prey did not go quietly. “Bullshit. I have friends here. Six of my tunes are being recorded as we speak.”
“Those aren’t going to happen.” Clay rose, and the other men followed suit. “We’ve made those calls already. You’re done in country music, Swanson. And if I see one paragraph of bad press about Chance Colburn after today, you’ll wish you’d never been born.”
Panic sent him backing toward the exit. “That’s an open threat. If I so much as get a bug bite, I’ll have a lawyer at your door.”
Clay took a menacing step forward. “Bring it.”
“This isn’t over,” Swanson whined. “You can’t blackball me.”
C. W. smiled. “Oh, but we can.”
“Do yourself a favor,” Tony said. “Disappear.”
Eyes wild, Michael Swanson fled the conference room. Satisfied with the outcome, Clay rebuttoned his jacket. “We ought to get together more often, boys. That was fun.”
Ulyss slapped C. W. on the back. “Almost as fun as my brawling days back in Athens.”
“Explains that crooked nose of yours.” C. W. shook hands with Clay. “Good luck with Colburn. The boy’s got real talent. I hope he keeps his ass out of the fire for good this time.”
“I’ve got faith in him.”
The two executives departed, leaving Clay alone with Tony.
“We still make a good team,” his former partner said. “Felt just like old times.”
Clay couldn’t reminisce without the guilt of sleeping with his best friend’s wife. “Thanks for coming today, Tony. I know your artists had three of those songs Swanson mentioned. Pulling them couldn’t have been easy.”
“The artists balked a bit, but the songs weren’t that great anyway.” The tension that had simmered between them since Clay had unceremoniously left Foxfire Records with no explanation sucked the oxygen out of the room. The easy camaraderie of the meeting was replaced by an awkward silence until Tony cleared his throat. “Maybe you can come to dinner some time. Joanna and I would love to have you.”
Joanna would love to have him, but not in the way Tony imagined. “Maybe,” Clay replied. “We’ll see.”
“Great. See you around, then.”
“I’m sure.”
After Tony left, Clay wandered back to his office, regret heavy on his mind, but satisfied with the morning’s outcome.